


Sleep in heavenly peace

by beartopiary



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 00:59:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beartopiary/pseuds/beartopiary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sleepy Hollow Secret Santa gift for tumblr user acronym-soup. Ichabod and Abbie brave the dangers of a Christmas Eve blizzard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep in heavenly peace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GVSpurlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GVSpurlock/gifts).



> I focused mostly on Christmastime settings, hope you enjoy :) Merry Christmas!!

“You sure that’s going to be enough? It’s, what, 17 degrees out?”

Ichabod’s eyes dart to the hideout’s window, glaring contemptuously at the mess of clouds beyond its frosted panes.

“After 250 years of the cold, one would assume I’d be accustomed to dealing with some chilly weather,” he mutters in response. She shoots him a pointed look, glances down at his two-century old coat, and he can see the sigh held behind her lips. He hears her quietly exhale through her nose, an action often performed when she’s annoyed with him, and his resolve fades.

“We haven’t the time right now,” he begins, after a pause, “but I would not be averse to the purchasing of a new coat later on, if you so desire.”

The thought of donning the same annoyingly colorful and confusingly foreign attire that he sees upon members of his gender from this brave, new world makes him uncomfortable, but it is a small price to pay for Abbie’s peace of mind. God only knows how valuable that is, considering all that’s happened.

She smiles at this. “It’s about time you got a hold of some normal clothes, anyway,” she comments, white teeth peeking out at him.

“Well, come on, then, let us make haste! Time waits for no one, Lieutenant,” he announces, offering his arm. Her brows lift in what he thinks is skepticism, but she nonetheless accepts and they step out into the snow with their arms interlocked...

...only to be met with the sight of a good foot of snow.

"Christ, how long were we in there?" Abbie breathes out in astonishment. She turns back to him. "I don't know about you, but I am not going to spend my Christmas Eve locked up in that dusty old room. We can't take the car, but do you think we could manage walking to my place? It's only a few blocks."

It sounds crazy. Impossible, even. But when he tries to put things in perspective, a bit of snow pales in comparison to the mountain of demons and spirits and things they've struggled against before. He nods his acquiescence.

At first, it isn’t so bad. Ichabod is a healthy young (well, considering his circumstances,  _young-ish_ ) man, and his boots are more than enough to fend off any chill that tries to creep in through his toes. But it seems to him that the further they trek in this godforsaken weather, the more intense the blizzard grows. Over time, ice-cold water seeps into the seams of his clothes and the snow caught in his hair ceases to melt away.

He can see Abbie’s breaths dissipating into the snow falling in his peripheral vision, and he briefly wonders how she can possibly bear letting this freezing air into her lungs without immediately experiencing some form of internal frostbite.

“How're you holdin' up?” She asks, from somewhere to his right.

He grunts in response, reluctant to subject his sensitive teeth to the bone-chilling wind for any longer than is absolutely necessary. The shivering and the chattering was unpleasant enough.

She stops, and there is silence.

“Crane,” she says, and he can feel the silent reprimand before it’s even left the confines of her mouth, “what did I tell you?”

“My apologies,” he huffs out quietly. His arm tightens around hers the slightest bit, and she sighs again, steam cascading out of her mouth.

She slips her arm out of his grasp and he is momentarily (unnecessarily, irrationally,  _illogically_ ) hurt, before he realizes why; she’s unwrapping the great big length of fabric she has coiled around her neck, and the hurt gives way to indignation.

“I assure you, Lieutenant, I’d sooner die than allow a lady to sacrifice her own comfort so that I might escape the consequences of a decision I consciously made,” he declares, his back straightening with resolve.

“Trust me, I’d rather die than give you any of my clothes too, but that’s not what I’m doing,” she explains, holding one end of her scarf out at arm’s length. “Get in here.”

“E-Excuse me? Do you realize the impropriety of what you suggest?!"

"Do not try me," she warns, and this time he can visibly see the air coming through her nose. He sputters about a bit more but is too cold to put up any serious objections.

They continue trudging through the blizzard, and though he can no longer feel his fingers and his hair has turned from brown to speckled white, the faintest warmth in the crook of his elbow and the smell of Abbie in the fabric against his face is enough to grant him a sense of contentment.

~~

It is a rough spot of work digging out enough room for the apartment's main entrance to swing out unimpeded by snow, but they manage. The sudden absence of the sounds of wind and snow is slightly overbearing, but Ichabod hardly notices it under the sensation of warm air washing over his entire body. He breathes it in.

Abbie shares a look of accomplishment with him, and, as always, he thinks to himself that hardship is easier with a friend. They make their way to her floor and she opens the door after a second of fumbling with the lock. She huffs in triumph.

"Home, sweet home."

One shower and another confused flailing water show later, they sit together on her couch in front of her Christmas tree (if that unnatural mess of artificial pines can even be called a tree, Ichabod thinks skeptically), watching a fake yule log burn and sipping from cups of overly-sweet hot chocolate. Abbie has insisted on lending him a fresh set of clothes, and, for the first time, he finds them to be quite endearing, if not rather itchy. He isn't sure if a man of his age and station should be wearing a sweater depicting Jolly Old St. Nick (why the chubby man was dressed in red instead of the traditional green was a mystery to him), but he secretly quite likes the feeling of letting go of his aging 18th century shirt and trousers in favor of something else so festive and... adorable, for lack of a better word.

Abbie, on the other hand, seems to disagree (she had apologized for not having anything else his size), but if her smile is anything to go by, she likes it too.

The sound of the wind howling just outside her window is momentarily interrupted by a small clink as she places her cup on the coffee table, before she sinks back deeper into the cushions and draws her knees up to her chest.

She glances sideways. "Nice, isn't it?"

Ichabod returns the look, and likewise smirks. "Nicer than it is outside, most definitely."

There is a sudden weight on his shoulder when Abbie lets her head drop gently onto his arm. He puts his own cup down beside hers on the table, and then with a silent understanding lets gravity guide his cheek to the top of her head.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, breathing in the scent of her hair ( _shampoo_ , she'd called it), "for being stubborn earlier."

He can't see the smile on her face from his position atop her head, but he knows it's there.

"It's okay," she drearily says. "I'm not the one who ended up paying for it."

The snow littering the area by her door tells a different tale, but he doesn't mention it. He knows she refers instead to his now-ruined clothing. Well, he'd known the day he'd have to say goodbye to that coat would come eventually.

"Happy Christmas, Abbie," he says then, his eyelids suddenly feeling the weight of the night's events.

He waits for a response but her slow breathing is the only sound that comes from her. His smile widens fractionally, and for a brief moment, he presses his lips into her hair. He allows himself to give into the desire to let his eyes droop closed and the two of them drift off to sleep together, free from the horrors of the apocalypse if only for one night.


End file.
